God, I am so fucking sick of games.
No one needs to pull me off. I kneel up, digging my knee into her stomach, and watch breathlessly as she fights for air, unable to rear up far enough to spit it out.
“One! Two! Three!” the crowd chants. The Dukes’ Delta Kappas are against the ring, pounding into the floor with every second. “Four! Five! Six!” LDZ is behind my Lords, and all of them are heaving their fists into the air. “Seven! Eight! Nine!”
“Get up!” Perez shouts from across the ring, face mangled with a sneer. “You’re going to let this trash take you down?!”
When the crowd rings out with a booming, “Ten!” the bell dings, and then everyone is jumping and screaming, and here’s the hard truth.
I look down at her sputtering that Jell-O out of her throat, and mostly, I just feel pity for her. For whatever her Counts are going to do as punishment. For the next sad Royal girl who falls under their spell. I feel pity for all of them, because when the Counts walk away, leaving her there, I know I’m right. Love makes you stronger.
And they’re the weaker ones for not feeling it.
19
Tristian
Story is sitting in the backseat of the truck with Rath, the remaining body glitter sparkling in the passing lights. The queen’s crown sits askew on her head, and she is fucking glowing. “I can’t believe I won this,” she gushes for the tenth time, spreading the cash out like a fan. “Oh my god, guys. This is fifty-grand! Look at it!”
For the third time, I gently point out, “That’s not fifty grand, sweetheart.”
For the third time, Killian agrees, “It’s maybe two grand.”
For the third time, Rath lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “For someone without money, they might as well be the same thing.”
The money she’s holding is her official cut for just participating. Merch sales, mostly. People pre-order the FU Screw Year’s Eve shirts a week in advance, even if they have no plans to attend. Never underestimate the marketing power of a good pun. But the check for the rest is sitting in my pocket—have to keep it protected—and she’s beaming, as she should be, so fucking proud of the win. It makes me wonder if she’s ever had one before. A big win. An important win, with a crowd cheering you on and your team having your back. Because that’s what this was.
She’s always been our Lady, but tonight was the first time she actually wielded it, owned it, used it, and goddamn, it looked good on her. The sight of her up on that stage, the whole of LDZ gathered around her as Killer hoisted her onto his shoulders, is still branded into my memory. She’s not the only one who’s proud. Our girl kicked the Cuntess’ ass, and it was glorious to watch.
“You were amazing,” I say, turning to face them from the front seat. I take a swig from one of the champagne bottles Rath nicked from the after-party and hand it back to her. “I thought for a minute someone was going to have to do CPR on that bitch if you kept cramming Jell-O down her throat.”
“I thought about it,” she says, taking a swallow from the bottle. It’s a sloppy swig that leaks out the corner of her mouth, bringing up the memory of Christmas evening. She’d been fantastic tonight, tits and ass barely covered, rolling around like a girl possessed. Fuck, like a Lady possessed. “But then I remembered tonight is about charity, not murdering bitches.” She gives me a toothy grin. “The most important charity being mine.”
“That’s our girl.” Rath slides an arm around her waist, dragging her close. Although she showered off in the gym locker room, the thick scent of cherry Jell-O still clings to her, filling the cab of the truck. Rath drags his tongue down her neck and nips at her collarbone, like he’s tasting it. He hums out a low, “Sweet cherry…”
She looks up at him, and I know what’s coming seconds before she covers his mouth with hers. I’m used to watching their teasing backseat antics by now, but it’s usually Rath driving it, flirting with the skin of her inner thighs or coaxing her into quiet, wet-sounding make out sessions. This time, she’s the aggressor, surging forward to push her tongue between his pierced lips.
“You taste good, too,” she purrs, tucking her hand beneath his faded black shirt. “Taste good, smell good, look good…”
Damn, she must really be amped up, burning from her win. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her like this—ever—and when she climbs into Rath’s lap, I think both of our brains shatter. We share a stunned look over her shoulder, but his focus is short-lived, stolen away by her mouth on his neck.